


On Wings

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort, Fear of Flying, First Meetings, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is flying out - Amaranthine to Kirkwall.  He sits next to a pretty, but rather sweaty and tense-looking elf.  Comfort ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calligraphypenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/gifts).



> This is the second prompt that I got from calligraphypenn for these lovely ['Meet Ugly'](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/143121635115/tokiosunset-people-should-do-more-meet-ugly) prompts (thank you, cutie!). Talk about fluff, holy cats, what is happening to your humble author? I blame elf-nerd and mage-nerd entirely. Those charming dorks.

The elf has his eyes closed, feigning sleep. Anders smiles slightly, putting his books on the empty aisle seat before pushing his bag into the overhead locker, cramming it in between an overstuffed backpack and a trim black briefcase.  He gets that, he really does.  It sucks having to think of conversation with strangers, let alone be stuck with an entire flight of uncomfortable silence after the talk inevitably runs dry.  It’s a long time to wait that out; five hours from Amaranthine to Kirkwall.  But then, the journey will be over, and he’ll be free and clear.  His smile widens.  Freedom.  That’s a word he could get used to.

 

He sits, taking care not to jostle the ‘sleeping’ elf.  It’s pretty obvious the guy isn’t really asleep - he’s far too tense.  His lips are pursed slightly, and his jaw occasionally works.   _ Nice try buddy _ , Anders thinks, and tightens the lap belt over his hips.  He withdraws one of the books from the seat pocket in front of him, ignoring the safety card, and opens it up, beginning to read.

 

He hears the drone of engines begin, and the little plane shudders slightly.  Anders doesn’t look up, absorbed as he is in the story in front of him.  Something in his conscious mind reacts when he hears the announcement about  _ regulations require all passengers to comply with the instructions of the cabin crew _ , and he looks up.  This again.  He always politely pays attention to the safety briefing, even if he feels he could volunteer to do it himself.  The attendant gestures elegantly to the glow-in-the-dark strips on the floor, and then to the place from which oxygen masks will come in the event of a cabin depressurization.   _ Poor thing, he looks bored as hell _ , Anders thinks, and sits up a little straighter, staring at the attendant as if they were telling him the most interesting thing in all the world. Around him, other passengers are laughing, listening to music, still reading.   _ So rude _ , Anders thinks, and smiles as the attendant finishes the brief.  

 

The captain is next, announcing their destination, that Kirkwall is sunny today with patches of high cloud, though they are expecting bad weather over the Waking Sea.  As the disembodied voice drones on, Anders feels the elf shift beside him, and their legs brush.  He looks over quickly, and frowns with concern.  The elf is ashen-faced, and there is a light sheen of sweat on his top lip. He is looking at the safety card with an air of someone who is trying to commit every last piece of information to memory.  Then the green eyes look up at Anders, and he frowns as he asks aggressively, “What?”

 

“Nothing, nothing,” Anders tells him, and quickly looks away again.  He groans internally at the interaction, but supposes it relieves him of making conversation.  He looks back at his open book, but the elf’s face keeps swimming before his eyes - that real fear obvious in the sweat, the tension in the set of his mouth.  “You know,” he says pleasantly, though internally he is asking himself why on earth he’s speaking at all, “Statistically, you’re more likely to win the lottery than to die in a plane crash.”

 

The elf stares at him, clearly horrified.  Finally, he asks, “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes, actually,” Anders smiles, then puts out his hand as he tells the elf his name.  His hand hangs there as the elf stares at it, and Anders smile wanes.   _ Idiot,  _  he tells himself,  _ Maker, that was an awful thing to say!  Statistically be damned, you’ve just gone and freaked him out even more!  Poor thing _ , he thinks, and begins to lower his hand again, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that he’s just made the elf far more uncomfortable with his hamfisted goodwill than perhaps even the flight itself.  Suddenly though, the elf’s hand shoots out, catching Anders’ by the tips of his fingers.  He shakes it once, very quickly, then lets go again.  After a moment, the elf says, “Fenris. That’s my name.”

 

“Right.  Well.  Nice to meet you.  Uh… look, would you feel better if we swapped seats?  And… do you want distraction, or would you rather I shut up?  I don’t mind, honestly.  I mean, I know…”  _ what it is to be frightened _ , he almost says, then corrects himself, “...that I might not be able to help you, and I know that we’ve just met.  But I will.  If you’ll let me.”

 

The elf smiles slightly and raises an eyebrow, though his death-grip on the safety card doesn’t relinquish.  “Motivated by self-interest, then?  This pity?”

Anders chuckles, “Oh, of course!  The fact that you’re quite easy on the eyes goes a long way as well.  But like I said, I don’t know you at…”  There is a sudden clunk, and a loud whirring noise, and the plane shifts heavily, beginning to roll toward the runway.  Fenris blanches, crams the safety card back into the pocket in front of him and grips the armrests, squeezing his eyes shut tight.  Anders watches as his mouth works, sees the dark eyebrows contract as Fenris concentrates on keeping it together.  He can almost feel the force of Fenris’ fear, the pulse and thrum and blare of it, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.  Quietly, Fenris growls, “Talk to me, okay?  About anything.  If you want to help me, just talk.  Keep me here.”

 

Anders nods.  “Well, I’m reading quite an interesting book at the moment,” he begins, and watches Fenris carefully as the plane moves with more purpose.  It reaches it’s position and stops for a moment, as Anders is carefully laying out the main ideas of the research, the thesis points of the chapters he’s read so far.  He is just going into why he disagrees with one of the arguments put forward when the plane lurches, rumbling faster and faster, the forces exerting themselves on the bodies that it carries within it.  He sees Fenris’ jaw clench and his nostrils flare, and then one hand comes off the armrest and gropes blindly for Anders.  He catches it, holds the clammy hand inbetween both his own, letting Fenris grip as tightly as he needs to. He moves a little closer to Fenris in his seat, cooing about  _ landmark studies _ and  _ risk mitigation for patient care _ and  _ coping skills training _ , barely hearing himself.  The plane reaches a critical mass and then rises, higher and higher.  Anders keeps talking, telling Fenris about the things he’s read, and eventually, Fenris opens his eyes.

 

He sighs, not looking at Anders, who smiles.  “See?  Not so bad.”

Fenris laughs shakily, and glances at him.  He swallows, looks out the window and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, of course,” Anders tells him.  The elf shifts uncomfortably, and then, still looking out the window asks, “Do you mind… if I keep holding your hand?”

  
Quiet for a moment, then a bright sounding  _ bing! _ as the captain switches off the seatbelt light and the attendant makes an announcement.  Anders smiles.  “No. I don’t mind at all.”


End file.
